Reflection
by daymarket
Summary: Morzan is a shadow that he can never escape, especially in Galbatorix's eyes. Murtagh/Galbatorix, implied Galbatorix/Morzan and Murtagh/Eragon. Dark.


**Um...no idea where this came from. Warnings for dark, angst, rape...yeah.**

* * *

What he remembers most about it later is the taste of dark red wine.

Murtagh stares down at the murky ale in his mug, distanced from the chaos of the tavern around him. Tornac would have kittens if he knew that his twelve-year-old charge was alone in the city (and in one of the most disreputable taverns of Uru'baen, no less!), but Tornac is down with a nasty flu. As it is, when one of the barrack soldiers unexpectedly invited Murtagh to a tavern party, just thinking about the scandalized gasps of the court was enough to make him accept without a second thought.

He's starting to regret it, though. Although he's only had a few sips, the bitter taste of the ale has gone straight to his head, and he's already starting to feel slightly woozy. The soldiers seem to be having an uproarious time with the dartboard on the back wall, but the noise and chaos is making him nauseous.

The wooden door creaks as another patron pushes it open, and Murtagh catches a glimpse of the full moon before it swings closed again. The newest customer wears a concealing cloak with a hood that hides his features from view, but that's nothing unusual in this disreputable tavern. He slides onto a stool next to Murtagh and orders his drink, the hooded face swinging in Murtagh's direction as if studying him. Uncomfortable, Murtagh raises his mug to hide his face, taking another tiny sip.

"Enjoying yourself?" the stranger says

Murtagh glances at him, surprised, and gives a noncommittal shrug. "Fine," he mutters into his mug.

The stranger doesn't take his eyes off him, even as the bartender sloshes the mug onto the table carelessly. "What're you looking for?"

_You to go away_, Murtagh thinks rebelliously. If he has to be sick, he wants to be sick in peace, without this man nattering at him.

As if the stranger hears his thoughts, he laughs—a harsh, cracking sound that slides down Murtagh's spine like oil. He reaches for his mug with one hand and downs the entire thing in one gulp, not spilling a single drop as he lets the mug fall back onto the counter. "Swill," he comments. "I wouldn't feed a pig that stuff."

Murtagh gives a grunt, hoping that the man will take the hint and leave. He takes a deep breath as the door swings open again, wondering if he can make it back to his rooms in the palace without throwing up.

A surprisingly strong grip fastens around his wrist, and Murtagh reacts instinctively, his other hand twisting a dagger from his belt and slicing it up towards the man's face. The stranger is faster than him, though, grabbing his other hand and slamming it against the table hard enough that the dagger falls from Murtagh's numbed fingers.

"Let me go," Murtagh hisses.

"Easy, lad," the man rumbles, his voice still harsh, but oddly husky now. "Quick reflexes—but not quick enough."

Murtagh takes a deep breath, struggling to remain focused throughout the buzzing in his head. "What do you want?"

The man chuckles, and Murtagh turns his face away as he leans closer. "Only to introduce you to better fare than this—" he inclines his head at the empty beer mug—"slop."

He releases Murtagh's wrists, and the younger man staggers, one hand gripping the counter for support. His vision is strangely hazy, and the room is spinning in an alarming way. Surely a couple sips couldn't have made him _this_ drunk, could they? He watches unsteadily as the man dumps out his half-empty mug onto the floor and carefully refills it with a flask of his own. The man pushes the mug into Murtagh's unresisting hands, and he stares down at the red liquid glassily.

"Go on. First of many, I hope."

Murtagh hesitates, but his survival instinct is already obscured by the dizzying effect of the beer. He'd take one sip then, just to be polite—no more. Slowly, he raises the mug to his lips and drinks.

It's wine—dark red wine of the best quality, so good that he can't stop himself from taking one gulp, and another, and another, until the mug is empty. He sets it down with shaking hands and wipes his lips on his sleeve, wondering vaguely why the world is suddenly sideways. "Come with me," he hears, but the words are faraway, distant.

Somehow, he manages to get off the stool, aided by the supporting grip on his back. He must have blacked out for a moment or so, because the next thing he's aware of is the fact that he's pressed against the wall and the stranger's hands are roaming under his tunic and stroking the base of his spine, and it feels _so good_.

"No," he manages to gasp, but his voice is filled with a desperate longing. "I can't—oh—I—"

"Shhh," the man whispers into his ear. "Just relax. Gods, you look so much like Morzan…I'll make this good for you, I promise."

Murtagh's eyes are half-closed with ecstasy with his father's name registers dimly in his mind. He opens his eyes, pushing against the man with clumsy hands, struggling to force the words past his lips. "Morzan?" he slurs. "My—my father—"

The man doesn't answer for a long moment as his fingers push at Murtagh's opening, fingers rubbing against him in a way that makes him jerk and gasp, losing all rational thought. The man continues to strip off Murtagh's clothes with his free hand, his mouth pressing against Murtagh's until he barely has enough air to breathe, let alone speak.

"Morzan—" Murtagh manages to say weakly in between deep, punishing kisses, fighting to keep some shred of sanity. "My father—oh—_oh—_"

As the man presses his lips to Murtagh's neck, he finds himself backed up against the rough sheets of the bed, gently but irrefutably pressed down against the covers. The man frees one hand to fumble out a flask of oil. Smearing it over his fingers, he reaches down once more to stroke Murtagh in _exactly_ the right place to make him cry out again, knowing that _this is wrong, this is wrong!_ but unable to resist the man's advances.

He cries out as he comes, blackness swarming over his vision as the tide of orgasm sweeps over him. For one glorious moment, he can't even think about his father or Tornac or anything else as the colors rush over him and the world turns.

It's almost painful to return to reality, the intoxicating wave of pleasure fading, the sores and aches of his earthly body returning. He touches his tongue to his lips, suddenly aware of a dull pain in his backside and the heat of another body next to him. Not daring to breathe, he opens his eyes slowly, staring up into unreadable black eyes.

He's naked, he's exhausted, he's just had sex with a man whose name he doesn't even know, hasn't so much as spoken ten words to. At the same time, he can't summon up any protest—after all, he didn't say no, did he? In fact, he was almost _begging _for it, near the end.

"I can't…" he begins slowly, framing each word with numb lips. Every limb feels leaden and heavy; it's all he can do just to breathe. "You just…"

"Yes," the man said softly. "I _just_."

The man smiles gently and kisses him, his tongue pushing into Murtagh's mouth. Despite himself, Murtagh responds, his tired body pressing against the man's almost involuntarily. He can taste red wine, and the taste sends another thrill through him. He closes his eyes and lets the man take him again, allowing this rape in the privacy of darkness.

* * *

He was twelve then. He's sixteen now—a little older, hopefully a little wiser. He hasn't forgotten that strange night, but he buries it in his memory and hopes that it was all a dream. Better for it to come from his twisted imagination than for it to be real.

He looks at himself in the disc of polished bronze and smooths back his hair a little nervously. The king has asked him to dinner tonight, something he's never done before. Murtagh has been a ward of the palace for many years now, but this will be the first time he's been to a formal dinner with just the king alone, without the protective company of the court.

His reflection stares back at him: dark, somber eyes, lines that frame a mouth that does not know how to smile. He can see the faint white line of a scar along his chin, an old injury from his training sessions in the courtyard. Tornac does not pull his blows, telling him that his youth can only protect him for so long.

When he enters the dining hall, the king gestures for him to sit by his side. Murtagh obeys, his hands shaking just the slightest bit. He doesn't dare to look directly at the king, but light fingers under his chin force him to look up. He sees the king staring down at him with benevolent eyes and relaxes slightly.

"You look so much like Morzan," the king comments. "He was my most loyal servant, and I am glad to have you in my household."

Chills crawl up Murtagh's spine, but he forces himself to remain still. "Yes, your majesty," he says.

When the king finally lets him go, Murtagh sits down in his seat and stares down at his plate as the servers move in. They place a roast suckling pig on the table, ringed by the finest delicacies the empire can offer. A server hovers next to him, holding a pitcher. "Wine, my lord?"

Murtagh nods. The server pours out a steady stream of wine into his cup—dark, red wine. Murtagh's hand jerks involuntarily, sending the cup flying across the table. The wine spills across the tablecloth, soaking into the pristine white fabric. It looks like a streak of drying blood.

"Sorry," Murtagh says, his voice sounding distant and insincere even to his own ears. He can feel the weight of the king's gaze on him, cool and analytical.

"No matter," the king says as the server babbles apologies. "Perhaps you're too young to enjoy the palate. Cider will do instead."

Murtagh nods stiffly. The servers wipe up what they can and pour Murtagh a new cup of apple cider, spiced with cinnamon. He lifts the glass up to his lips and drinks, feeling the warm liquid flow down his throat and settling in his stomach. It feels good, easing the tension there.

"So," the king says as they settle down to eating. "How have your studies been faring? Tornac reports that you are doing well."

Murtagh answers the king's questions automatically, making them as short as possible without risking the king's wrath. He can feel the king observing him all the while and works on keeping his breathing steady. He isn't drunk or lightheaded this time. There is nothing to fear.

He listens as the king weaves him a picture of Alagaesia, a dream that seems impossible to achieve yet within arm's reach all at once. The king's voice is soft, almost gentle, yet Murtagh feels his head start to pound, matching the increasingly frantic pulse of his heart. What the king is saying makes sense. It's achievable, it's real, it's the way things are supposed to be. It's also irrevocably wrong, although he doesn't know the reason why.

He looks up as cool fingers wrap around his wrist. The king stares at him as if he could read Murtagh's mind. "Murtagh," he says, and Murtagh wants to throw up from the kindness in his voice. "Are you all right?"

"Yes, your majesty," he says, or tries to say. His head is throbbing painfully now, and as the king's fingers move up to rub his temples, it is almost a relief.

"Perhaps you should go lie down," the king says. Murtagh tries to voice a denial, but his voice isn't working right. He finds himself nodding assent, standing up with the aid of the king's hands—soft, soothing, stroking hands.

His limbs are heavy, as if underwater, and his body is no longer his to control. He turns his head away from the king's wine-scented breath and closes his eyes tightly, trying to pretend that he doesn't hear the king's soft cry of _Morzan_ as he comes.

* * *

The desert is a stark, lonely place, but Murtagh doesn't mind the silence. He feels freer than he has in years as he sits next to Eragon and watches the firelight reflect in his eyes. Murtagh wonders what it would be like to love another person as himself. He wonders how Eragon would react if he reaches out.

In the end, as the Twins bring him back to Uru'baen, he loses even the choice of hope.

* * *

He remembers seeing a portrait of Morzan once, posed formally with his red dragon next to him and Zar'roc by his side. He remembers tracing the lines of his father's face, seeing himself in the slant of his father's eyebrows, the hazel eyes, the authoritative jaw. He remembers being torn apart by hate and jealousy, wanting yet despising this part of his heritage. He made the choice to run, hoping that he could escape it.

The past has caught up to him now, ensnaring him in its coils. His heritage has been thrust upon him—he has his own red dragon, just like Morzan did. And now, as he holds Zar'roc by the hilt, he can remember Eragon's eyes, his expression heavy with betrayal as Murtagh took the blade for his own.

"Congratulations," Galbatorix says from behind him. Murtagh turns around to look at him, not surprised to see that Galbatorix is bearing two goblets full of dark red wine. "A toast," he says. "To your success."

"I failed," Murtagh mutters.

Galbatorix shrugs. "Of no consequence."

"Eragon…"

Galbatorix smiles. "You also succeeded," he says, nodding at Zar'roc. "It suits you."

Murtagh is silent for a long moment. Galbatorix pushes a goblet into his hands, and Murtagh stares down at the heavy, burgundy liquid. "You're not upset." His words are flat, a statement rather than a question.

Galbatorix does not speak. In the silence, Murtagh lifts the goblet and drains it, letting it clatter carelessly to the ground when it is dry. He raises a hand, wiping away a trace of liquid on his lips.

"Why would I be upset?" Galbatorix says when Murtagh finishes. "You've done well, in your father's eyes."

Murtagh swallows hard and does not speak. Galbatorix does not seem to expect a reply, as his fingers trace the line of Zar'roc's hilt and move up to Murtagh's waist. The long, nimble fingers pull at the hem of Murtagh's tunic. "Did you ever imagine Eragon in your bed, crying out your name?" Galbatorix asks softly as his fingers trail along Murtagh's waist. "Did you ever want him that way?"

"Did I ever have a choice?" Murtagh says, turning his head away.

Galbatorix chuckles, the sound rich and full of promise. "Eragon was never good enough, anyway," he says. "Not for you, the firstborn."

The order of birth has nothing to do with it. All of what Murtagh has and who he is can be summarized in the reflection in the polished metal that stares back at him. He closes his eyes convulsively as his tunic falls away, the night air cool against his bare skin. Gods, he is sick of his reflection.

Zar'roc falls to the ground, forgotten. "Morzan," Galbatorix breathes in his ear, and Murtagh does not bother to correct him as they fall against the silken sheets of the bed. Galbatorix kisses him fiercely, almost cruelly, with lips that taste like dark red wine. Murtagh grips the sheets with his fingers and kisses back, the last of his resistance washing away.


End file.
